


Discotheque Juliet

by allegoricalrose (SilentStars)



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Dancing, F/M, PWP
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-30
Updated: 2014-12-30
Packaged: 2018-03-04 09:03:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,569
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3061961
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SilentStars/pseuds/allegoricalrose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Shut up and dance with me</p>
            </blockquote>





	Discotheque Juliet

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by Shut Up and Dance by Walk the Moon (lyrics below from this song), which I thought was one of the few songs I've been obsessed with lately that wasn't Doctor/Rose related. Until I thought about it. Sigh.

_We were victims of the night,  
The chemical, physical, kryptonite  
Helpless to the bass and faded light  
Oh we were born to get together,  
Born to get together._

“…and what’s more, the lead guitarist on Clruti told me that I had the gift of— Rose?”

“Mmm?”

The sneaky little vixen—woman. Earthing. Whatever. His vivacious—no, just, um, mate. His completely platonic and normal-relationship mate had clearly abandoned him to his ramblings sometime in the last hour because she was now wearing a strappy backless dress and sauntering—walking. She was walking into the console room.

“When…why…you…dress?” he squeaked.  
“I decided we needed a break from saving the universe.” Rose twirled a strand of curled hair around her little finger and he felt his body arch and stretch to join it. Whatever she wanted. Anything. He’d— “Land us somewhere where we can dance?”

Not that. “Rose…” he whinged even as he flicked a lever and turned a shiny knob. “You know I don’t dance. Or rather, that I can dance. Can. I can definitely dance. Not that I’ve tried it in this body, but I have no doubt that—Rose?”

“Mmm?” she hummed as she sat down on the jump seat and bent one knee up on the seat to re-tie a lace on her trainers. He was saying something, wasn’t he? He’d been—oh, what did it matter? What did anything else matter when her short dress rode up her thighs and her calves were shimmering in the low TARDIS lighting and she was wearing trainers so they could run and he loved running with her and her hair was half-draped in front of her face and her tongue was positioned at the corner of her mouth in concentration and all he wanted to do was taste it and—

“Blumpf,” he eloquently croaked.

She lifted her head and raised an eyebrow. “What was that?”

He swallowed. He blinked. He shook his head to rid himself of the cobwebs. “Um, I said Blumf, as in Blimfia IV. It’s a pleasure planet with loads of discotheques.”

“Oh! Brilliant! Is what I’m wearing okay?”

“You’re radiant. Er, I mean, the dress is radiant. Um. No. It can’t be radiant there’s no light to…Yes. You look fine, is what I’m trying to…”

“Doctor?”

He cleared his throat. “Yes?”

She smirked and sauntered—walked. She walked over to where he was gawping—standing normally at the console. Hopefully.

“Shut up and dance with me tonight.”

The TARDIS began streaming in some dance tune. Were she and his time ship best buddies again? Because he didn’t know how to feel about that. Two women ganging up against him could never be a good thing. Especially when they were his third and forth hearts.

“Rose, I—”

She took his hand and her teasing smile softened. “Let’s put all this curse of the Time Lords and last of the Time Lords, and all the other Time Lord angst on the back burner for the night. Yeah?”

Closing his eyes momentarily, he felt every wall drop. He was just so tired of constantly holding them up. Exhausted from building and rebuilding them. Of shoving feelings and wishes and wants and needs into the cracks and plastering them over.

Swaying forward into her, he bowed his forehead down and rested it on her own. “Yeah.”

“Really?” For all her bravado, she seemed surprised at his acquiescence.

“Yeah… Do you…do you want to dance here or should we go out? I’ve landed us right outside the biggest night club…”

“What do you want?”

What did he want? He wanted her, up against the back of the jump seat, his hands stroking her bare back before slipping under the seam and cupping her unrestrained breasts. He wanted her tongue in his mouth and her hands clenched and her back arched and her throat emitting the noises she made when they hugged after a long separation. He wanted…he wanted…

At his lengthy silence, a knowing smile rose up her lips and she squeezed his arm before saunt— _walking_ to the door. She cracked it open and a low thump thump thump of bass and the flash of fading lights drifted into the ship. Looking over her shoulder at him, stock-still and staring, she swivelled on her heel and prowled back over to him. And prowling it was. Unambiguously.

It was a good thing Time Lords didn’t drool. Because she would have been swimming over to him.

“Rose?” He felt physically unable to say anything but her name; unable to think any other thought. Rose. Rose. Rose. Drumming in time with the beat. She was his biggest weakness: his blind spot and his kryptonite and his hubris and his darkest day.

She was his discotheque Juliet.

Except that when she’d died for him and he’d died for her, they’d both survived and damn it, she was his morning daybreak and his second chance.

Her arms were raised and her palms spread, ready to capture his hands and draw him into a dance of some sort and there wasn’t a single millisecond to spare. Not a single one.

He grasped her hands and crashed his lips down onto hers. They parted in surprise and then they parted in pleasure and in all his years of time and space he’d never experienced how a second could stretch into a decade as well as contract into something shorter than one billionth of a nanosecond.

That lower lip of hers was just as delectable as he’d imagined on lonely nights, soft and plump and connected to her vocal cords in just the right way. But just in case, it was best to replicate the experiment. The replication was an unprecedented success. She fisted her hand in his suit jacket and dragged his body closer to hers and he groaned when her hips impacted with his pelvis.

“I want _you_ ,” he whimpered into her mouth and she parted her lips in response, moving one hand up to tug at his hair while the other slipped lower down his back. “I want to dance here. And I want that dancing to be a metaphor.”

“A metaphor for what?” she breathed back as his tongue explored her mouth, making a very friendly acquaintance with her own welcoming tongue.

“A metaphor for everything. I want everything. Everything with you.”

She broke away, gasping for air but accommodatingly tilting her head to the side for his eager lips to latch onto. She tasted like honey and heady spices and he knew at that instant that he could never have enough of her, could never be sated.

Horizontal. Necessary. Now.

His tie was on the grating before they reached the other side of the console, his shirt unbuttoned and hanging off his shoulders by they time he backed her into the hallway doorframe. Somehow his fingers managed to extract his goddess from the velveteen black dress while his mouth was occupied circling her pebbled nipple. His shirt didn’t make it past the door to the first room that contained a horizontal item of furniture. Her knickers…oh, God, her knickers. He had no idea where those ended up. He couldn’t have cared less.

She fumbled with the clasp of his trousers while he veritably tore off his copious undershirts, finally succeeding in freeing his throbbing length after a long minute. Later, he’d marvel at how she accomplished this feat when his fingers were inside her and his thumb was rubbing at her clit, but at the time he had no thoughts at all. No thoughts except low-level sensory experiences: the smell of her arousal, its taste on his tongue; the temperature of her sweaty skin against his; the arresting sight of her writhing under his touch; the rhythmic beating of his pulse synchronising with hers. The urgent need for more: more touch, more heat, more Rose.

Neither spoke apart from deep-throated moans and raspy gasps but they’d never communicated more clearly. Words had only held them back; telling had failed, showing was the only option left. A pleading look and a spasm of her hips into his hand were more than enough for him to know she was ready, more than ready for him, and in a perfectly timed dance, she wrapped her legs around his hips while he moved up her body.

He dropped his lips to hers as he slid into her warmth, barely holding back from biting down at how glorious she felt, encasing and clenching around him. It was never going to be a slow dance, this first time, and a choked sob escaped his throat when he felt her fall apart only minutes later. He tumbled down the hillside after her, unable to let her rove far from his side.

When he collapsed on top of her, rolling them both onto their sides, panting, he waited for the inevitable repercussions. The regret sure to flutter in the corners of her eyes, the stiffening of her muscles, the thick descending silence. But none of that happened. None. Instead, she smiled and leaned in to kiss him softly.

“You can have all the dances on my dance card,” she murmured, closing her eyes and entwining her legs in between his.

He was speechless.

So he pressed his lips to her hairline and closed his eyes.

Talking was overrated. Dancing, on the other hand…


End file.
